


Lipstick Marks and Glitter

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Stripper Clint Barton, oh my god they were roommates, valentine's day fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 17:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17770913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Bucky knows something's up with Clint, and he's determined to find out what.





	Lipstick Marks and Glitter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/gifts).



> As [Nny]() was writing people fics as Valentine's Day gifts, I thought someone should return the favor.
> 
> This is a strange, silly little fic. I hope you like it... sorry if you don't?

Clint is hiding something. 

Bucky’s good at noticing patterns - where people go when, how they act - and, on top of that, he’s good at noticing Clint. It’s not just that the guy’s been his roommate for almost a year now. It’s not just that Bucky tends to ‘lurk’, as Steve puts it, in the shadowier parts of rooms. It might have something to do with the way Clint’s face crinkles when he smiles, or the circumference of his biceps, and the way Bucky wants to measure it with his tongue. It might even have something to do with the firm, delicious curve of his ass as he walks out the door, again, with his gym bag, again. Like he has been doing for the past week. And he’ll come home at two am, again, and there will be glitter.

It’s the glitter that tips Bucky off the most, because Clint keeps weird hours, they all do. Three veterans in a shoebox, clattering around on top of each other, like the oddly shaped utensils in a draw, catching on each other and sticking awkwardly in all the wrong directions. They’ve never quite settled down to the ‘normal’ of civilian life, and Clint, with his busted up ears and the scars on his back that are so faded and stretched they must have happened long ago, before he outgrew the memories, he’s got more reason to stay awake than most.

He says goodbye, but he says it with a shady look in his eyes.

“No, he doesn’t,” Steve says, rolling his eyes when Bucky mentions this. His eyes don’t look away from the sketchpad in front of him though. “He often goes out at night.”

“Not looking like that, he doesn’t.”

Steve actually does look up then, to raise one eyebrow in befuddlement at that comment.

“He looked exactly like he always does,” Steve says, he twists his head towards the door, as though he’ll still see the echo of Clint walking through it. “In fact, I think we should have a word with him. Are we sure that he actually has more than one hoodie? I think he’s been wearing that t-shirt three days in a row.”

“2 days,” Bucky says. “The day before yesterday he was wearing the lighter purple one - with the archery pun on it.” Steve’s silence is mockery enough. “I watch people. It’s what I do,” Bucky tells him. “What did you think I was doing behind that rifle sight? Having tea and scones?”

“What was I wearing two days ago?” Steve asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Blue shirt, khakis,” Bucky responds immediately, calling Steve’s bluff. It’s easy enough, Bucky would bet that Steve doesn’t remember what he was wearing two days ago. But even apart from that, Steve’s predictable. He might be worried about Clint wearing the same hoodie, but Steve’s got about five outfits that he cycles through.

“Fine, but you notice him for different reasons.”

“Well, yeah,” Bucky agrees. “I notice you because someone needs to tell you when you’re being a dumbass.”

“Takes one to know one,” Steve responds. Bucky scoffs.

“Really? That’s what you’re going for? How old are you again? I coulda sworn I remembered you graduating high school, but I guess I must’ve got that mixed up with kindergarten somehow.”

“You’re deflecting,” Steve says, going back to his drawing, irritatingly unruffled with Bucky’s needling. The therapy’s doing wonders for his latent anger. Bucky would be proud of him if this weren’t the worst possible time for Steve to have a breakthrough - for Bucky that is. Goddammit.

“You’ve been hanging round with Wilson too much.”

“Stop trying to distract me,” Steve tells him. “Just admit you want to bang your roommate.”

“Stevie, really, your ego’s getting outta control. How many times do I have to tell you - I haven’t been attracted to you since you threw up all over me after we rode the Cyclone.”

“Really?” Steve shakes his head, looking disappointed. It’s usually a good tactic, with anyone other than Bucky. “Clint. You want to sleep with Clint. Just say it. Say those words: ‘Steve, I want to bang Clint.’”

Bucky takes in a deep breath.

“Steve…” he says, Steve looks him dead in the eyes and the lie sort of shrivels in Bucky’s throat. Steve’s practically his brother after all, if he can’t admit the truth to him, then he might as well give it all up right now. “I… Fuck me, I wanna kiss his stupid face and lick his stupid abs while he laughs, because that makes them do that funny wriggly thing, and I wanna listen to his stupid stories about the stupid kids he teaches archery to, even the boring ones, and I want…”

Steve is openly staring at him, and Bucky gathers himself to stare back, ready to attack if Steve even hints at mocking him for this.

“Oh,” is all Steve says.

“Yeah, oh,” Bucky agrees. He flops down onto the sofa, so his head is brushing against Steve’s thigh and he looks up at him. “I’m fucked. He sings Beyonce in the shower, Steve. He’s mostly deaf and I don’t think he could carry a tune before he lost his hearing, but he sings Beyonce in the shower so loud Mr Mapplethorpe complained last week - and I like it.” Steve makes an incoherent sound that is probably sympathetic. “And now he’s going out every night, looking shifty, and he’s coming back with glitter all over him and last night there was fucking lipstick on him. I’m not even kidding, Steve.”

“Are you sure it was lipstick?”

“Yes,” Bucky tells him. “You know why I’m sure? Because it was in the shape of someone’s lips. That’s a pretty clear sign. So he’s out there getting kissed by people - multiple people because there were at least 3 different shades, Steve. At least three. And he doesn’t want to tell us what’s going on.”

“Bucky, he probably just… ran into some friends, or something.”

“Who kissed his nipples?”

“How did you see his nipples?” Steve asks, like that’s the important thing here.

“He was heading into the bathroom - to wash off the glitter and the lipstick,” Bucky says, groaning at the memory of the sight. He doesn’t go out of his way to catch Clint half naked, that would be creepy beyond imagining, but when it happens, he does enjoy the view. Except when the view is marred by lipstick marks all over Clint’s chest.

Clint had looked back at him, towel over one arm, like the proverbial deer in the headlights, and Bucky had looked back at him without the mental capacity to cope with what he was seeing. Then Clint had scurried into the bathroom and Bucky had stood there and glared at the closed door, still seeing those damned lipstick marks.

“Have you asked him?” Steve asks, like the reasonable person Bucky knows he isn’t. “You know, you can do that. You could even sign it to him, just to make sure he doesn’t misunderstand you. I know you’ve been learning.”

“He clearly doesn’t want us to know,” Bucky says, drumming the fingers of his hand against his leg and looking over at the clock. It’s only ten pm, there’s another four hours at least before Clint comes back. “I should ask Natasha.” he says, sitting up.

“You won’t ask Clint because he doesn’t want you to know, but you will ask his best friend?” Steve says. Bucky turns to him.

“Yes,” he answers.

“Right…that’s definitely how privacy works,” Steve replies, he sighs again, like somehow he’s the put-upon one in this friendship. “She won’t tell you.”

Bucky already has his phone out and Natasha’s contact details on the screen.

“Yes, she will.”

Natasha doesn’t reply to his text immediately, that’s not unusual, though. Bucky’s not sure what she does, but her hours are sporadic and whether or not she can get to her phone at any given time is a bit hit and miss. But eventually she does reply.

‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’

Well that’s pointless.

“Told you she wouldn’t tell you.”

“Shut up,” Bucky responds. So that avenue’s shut to him. That just leaves tomorrow night - if Clint goes out again. Bucky hopes he doesn’t. It’s Valentine’s Day and he’d been sort of hoping that they’d end up spending it together, and maybe Bucky could say something charming and witty, and maybe Clint would be charmed.

Clint comes back in at half past two and this time Bucky doesn’t go out to see him. He hears the shower turn on though, hears Clint washing off the evidence. Evidence of what, though, that’s the question, because Clint’s done nothing wrong, as far as Bucky can tell. He has no idea that Bucky’s interested in him, and even if he knew, it’s not like that would make a difference. He has no reason to be ashamed of being kissed by one person or a dozen people, so why is he acting so shady.

Bucky knows he should leave well enough alone. He knows.

“What are you doing tonight?” he asks Clint as nonchalantly as he can the next morning, watching fondly as Clint downs almost two pints of coffee and wolfs down some Lucky Charms. “I was thinking we could order some take out, have a video game tournament - or a marathon of… what are those films you like, that you’re always saying I should watch?”

Clint blinks at him, once more looking like he’s been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar, his eyes dart around, looking for a way out, it seems.

“I… uh… can’t,” he says, when no eleventh hour rescue appears to save him. “I’ve got a thing.”

“Oh,” Bucky crushes his disappointment down. “That sucks. What… uh… what’s the thing?” he asks, because he can do subtle, when he feels like he needs to. 

To his horror, Clint honest-to-god blushes, red as a fire truck, and avoids Bucky’s eyes. He mutters something under his breath that Bucky can’t catch. Bucky’s pretty sure Clint wouldn’t even be able to hear it himself, even with his hearing aids in.

“What?” Bucky prompts, and Clint’s eyes dart up to his.

“I’ve got a job,” he says after a moment. “At a club… downtown.” That doesn’t sound like it’s worth blushing over.

“Oh…” Bucky says. A club. That makes sense for the glitter, sort of, depending on what kind of club it is, and maybe the lipstick marks too. It’s a job. It’s a fucking job, and Clint’s been hiding it from them for some reason. “Anywhere I know?” he asks, trying to keep it nonchalant, because he’s got an idea, a weird, shard of an idea that sticks in his gut uncomfortably, making him swallow around it.

“Uh...Bimetallic?” Clint says.

Bucky blinks, Bucky stares, Bucky tries to put all the little, petty thoughts that have just come wriggling out of his brain back in whatever box they came from, but they won’t fit. Because Bucky knows Bimetallic, he’s been there - a bachelor party about two years ago. It is definitely a strip club catering to all sexualities.

His throat goes dry. His mouth opens, no sound comes out.

“Don’t tell Steve, please don’t tell him,” Clint says, quick and fast, like he’s actually scared of Steve’s opinion.

“You think Steve cares if you’re a stripper?” The words make the idea crystallize in Bucky’s brain. Oh fuck, Clint’s a stripper. Bucky can picture it. Bucky can’t stop picturing it. His entire mind has been derailed. Because he’s been to Bimetallic, he can remember the layout, remember the stage and where the poles have been, and he has also seen how flexible Clint is, mostly owing to bets they’ve made over the last year and that one ill-conceived attempt at yoga. He can see that flexibility now, the strength in those legs, wrapped around the pole, bracing himself, undulating against it, slowly unbuttoning his shirt.

“I… This sounds weird, but I don’t want to disappoint him,” Clint says. Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be an idiot. It’s a valid job,” Bucky tells him, the words coming without him really noticing them. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He bets Clint’s good at it first. The music would be loud enough that he’d be able to feel the beat of it, like he does in clubs. He bets Clint gets all the tips.

“I’m not… technically a stripper,” Clint says, shifting even more uncomfortably, and Bucky’s mind immediately jumps to the worst.

“Are you - do we need to contact the police? Are they forcing you to do it?” Bucky straightens up, and he knows that his face must have gone into his murder expression again, with good reason for once.

“Forcing me to…?” Clint trails off and reaches out to grab Bucky’s arm. “Shit, no, I’m not a hooker. The place isn’t like that, it’s just… you know it’s Valentine's Day, right?”

“I might have seen a poster that said something to that effect,” Bucky tells him. “What about it?”

“I’m not a stripper, in fact, tonight’s my last night. I’m… oh fuck,” Clint rubs a hand over his hair, messing it up in a way that makes Bucky want to run his fingers through it too. “I’m Cupid,” he says.

Bucky blinks again, stares at him, nonplussed.

“It’s like this promotion thing, you know. They wanted someone who could shoot arrows and would be willing to wear… It’s sort of like a sheet?” Clint gestures across his body. “Like - you know, the Roman god? Shooting his arrows of love?”

“I can’t tell if that’s a euphemism or not,” Bucky tells him slowly, trying to work out exactly what Clint is saying. “You shoot people?”

“No, I shoot… well, balloons mostly. They’re full of glitter, and they get thrown up in the air and I shoot them and the glitter…” Clint brings his fingers down, wiggling them in a rain-like motion. “It’s been way more popular than I thought.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Bucky says, picturing Clint in a toga type thing, putting his muscles to good use, he’s seen him pull back a bow a few times, and it never gets old. He can only imagine how much hotter it is when your view of his rippling muscles isn’t impeded by all that annoying clothing. He licks his lips unconsciously, and becomes aware that he’s staring at Clint’s chest again. He’s officially strayed into creepy territory.

Clint is looking at him, curiously, like Bucky’s suddenly become a riddle he needs to solve.

“You… uh… could come and catch the show, if you want,” Clint says slowly, scratching at the back of his neck and looking away. “I mean, there are loads of performers, so you wouldn’t have to watch me…” Bucky gapes at him and Clint shifts uncomfortably, before speaking again, twice as fast. “But you’ve probably got better things to do on Valentine’s Day than go to a strip club, it’s a stupid idea. You have to see me every day, why would you want to stare at me mo-”

“I’ll be there,” Bucky says, interrupting him. He’s not going to miss out on this for the world.


End file.
